They entered Mirkwood with dread in their hearts. The trees were tall and twisted, their branches interwoven so tightly that little light penetrated to the forest floor. The air was still and heavy, smelling of decay and something else—something ancient and malevolent that Bungo could not name.
Gandalf led them along a path that wound between the great trunks. He seemed to know the way, though to Bungo it looked like all the trees were the same. They walked in silence, for speaking felt wrong in that place. Even the dwarves, usually so boisterous, were quiet.
On the third day in the forest, Gandalf stopped.
"I must leave you," he said. "There is something I must attend to, elsewhere. But do not despair. Follow this path, and it will lead you through the forest. Do not leave the path. Whatever you do, do not leave the path. And if you see a light in the trees, or hear music, or smell good food—ignore it. It is not what it seems."
Bungo felt a cold hand clutch his heart. "You're leaving us? Here? In this terrible place?"
"I must," said Gandalf. "But I will return when I can. Trust in the path, and trust in each other. And Bungo—remember that you are braver than you think."
And with that, he was gone. He simply walked into the trees and disappeared, leaving the company alone in the darkness.
For days they trudged along the path. The forest seemed endless, and the lack of sunlight made it impossible to tell how much time had passed. They ate their provisions sparingly, for they did not know how long they would need them. The water in their skins ran low, and they grew thirsty.
One day—or night, they could not tell—they came to a stream. It was black and slow-moving, with a strange, oily sheen on its surface. On the far bank, they could see the path continuing.
"We must cross," said Thorin.
They looked for a bridge or a ford, but there was none. The stream was too wide to jump, and the water looked deep and dangerous.
"I don't like it," said Bungo. "Gandalf said to stay on the path. This stream is not on the path."
"But the path is on the other side," said Thorin. "We have no choice."
Bombur, who had been eyeing the water thirstily, suddenly lunged forward and plunged his hands into the stream. Before anyone could stop him, he had drunk deeply.
"Bombur, no!" cried Bungo.
But it was too late. Bombur's eyes grew wide, then glassy. He toppled forward and fell into the stream with a great splash. The current caught him and swept him away.
"After him!" shouted Thorin, and the dwarves plunged into the water.
Bungo hesitated. The water looked wrong, felt wrong. But he could not let Bombur drown. He took a deep breath and jumped.
The water was cold—colder than anything he had ever felt. It seemed to sap the strength from his limbs, and he struggled to stay afloat. He saw Bombur ahead, bobbing in the current, and swam towards him with all his might.
He reached the dwarf just as the stream carried them around a bend. There, on the bank, was a boat. An elven boat, with long oars and a carved swan's head at the prow. Bungo grabbed hold of it and pulled Bombur towards it, shouting for help.
The other dwarves appeared, swimming and splashing, and together they managed to haul Bombur into the boat. Then they climbed in themselves, collapsing in the bottom, gasping for breath.
Bombur was alive, but he did not wake. He lay in the boat like a sack of potatoes, his face pale and his breathing shallow.
"The enchanted stream," said Thorin. "He drank from it, and now he sleeps. The stories say that whoever drinks from the black water of Mirkwood falls into a sleep that lasts for days—or forever."
Bungo looked at Bombur and felt a surge of pity. The poor dwarf had only wanted a drink. Now he might never wake.
They took up the oars and rowed downstream, following the current. The forest pressed in on either side, dark and watchful. They did not know where they were going, or what they would find, but they could not stay where they were.
For hours they rowed, taking turns at the oars. Bombur slept on, his snores filling the boat. Bungo's arms ached, and his eyes grew heavy, but he dared not sleep. The forest was too dangerous for that.
As evening fell—or what passed for evening in that lightless place—they saw lights ahead. Torches, burning in the trees. And they heard music, faint and sweet, drifting through the air.
"The elf-fires," whispered Thorin. "The stories say that wood-elves live in this forest. They are not like the elves of Rivendell. They are wilder, more dangerous. We must be careful."
They rowed towards the lights, for there was nowhere else to go. The music grew louder, and they could see shapes moving among the trees—tall, graceful shapes, dancing in the firelight.
Suddenly, arrows flew from the darkness. They struck the boat, the water, the trees around them. The dwarves shouted and reached for their weapons, but it was too late. Elves swarmed out of the forest, their faces stern and unfriendly, and before they could fight back, they were captured.
All except Bungo.
In the confusion, Bungo had slipped over the side of the boat and into the water. He swam to the bank and hid among the reeds, watching as the elves bound the dwarves and led them away into the forest. Bombur, still sleeping, was carried on a stretcher.
Bungo was alone again. Truly alone, this time, in a dark and dangerous forest, with no idea where his friends had been taken or how to save them.
He sat in the reeds for a long time, shivering and miserable. Then he thought of Gandalf's words: You are braver than you think.
"Well," he said to himself, "I suppose I shall have to be. There's no one else to do it."
And he crept out of the reeds and followed the elves into the forest.